


Choose Love Or Sympathy (But Never Both)

by alexabarton



Series: Deduce My Ruined Heart [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Sex, Angry John, Angry Sex, Angst and Feels, BAMF John, Blood and Injury, Drug Abuse, Hand Jobs, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Teenlock, Unilock, Violence, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This aint Scooby Doo kid, and there is no mystery to solve....do I make myself clear?"</p><p>Before a single word could come out of his mouth a fist like concrete slammed hard into the side of his skull....and the world went black....</p><p>Loving Sherlock Holmes was never going to be easy - in fact, it hurts like hell - literally!</p><p>In which Sherlock is back on the sauce and John has nowhere to hide - There will be blood!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choose Love Or Sympathy (But Never Both)

**Author's Note:**

> Did I say I would cut back on the angst this time? Woops!  
> But hang in there readers, it's gotta get bad before it gets good - but buckle up, it's a bumpy ride!
> 
> WARNING : DESCRIPTIONS OF DRUG USE

John was gone.

A rush of air, a thumping wall of sound and music, a loud metallic click, then echoing silence.

Sherlock Holmes stared blankly at the cracked screen of his mobile phone as it lay on the damp grubby floor of the men’s room, incriminating message fully on display, the damning evidence of indiscretion and lies (ditch him and come over – I’ll keep the bed warm xx). Despair seeped through every fibre of his being.

It was a monumental cock-up, his biggest yet, to let John see those words, to shatter every illusion he might have held that Sherlock even gave a fuck. No chance to explain now, that he hadn’t answered a single one, until Victor hammered that final nail in the coffin.

Well fuck honesty if this was the result.

A wave of pure devastation overwhelmed him as his knees finally gave way and he slid slowly down the wall, until he sat on the cold, hard surface, arms clasped tightly around his shins, nervous tremors making jelly-limbs jerk and twitch like a marionette with the strings all cut. It felt strangely like withdrawl, this searing pain tearing at his chest, the sense of unreality, body detatched from mind as he shivered and shook, fighting for each breath through constricted airways, as all rational thought took flight.

All he could see were John’s eyes, red and pleading, spilling hot, angry tears that he had never wanted Sherlock to see, and all he could hear, as loud as a gunshot was the sharp crack of bone as John destroyed himself at Sherlock’s hand

. It was his fault, he had caused this, all the anger and confusion, the loss of control.

John should have fucking punched him, not the bloody stall, broken Sherlock’s bones, not his own.

He deserved it, for that moment of weakness in the early hours when he should have been strong, deleted that damn message from the ghost of his past, when the scent of John was still on his skin and his come up his arse for fuck’s sake, but the urge to see Victor one last time had proved too strong, a mistake, a terrible mistake.

He should move, he needed to move.

The cold surface chilled his skin as he clawed his way upright, hand closing around the cool metal casing of the object of his destruction as he rose.

Not a good move…fuck he was going to be sick. The world tilted and he lunged forward propelled towards the nearest stall, bent double, stomach heaving as he retched and coughed, heated bile and alcohol burning his oesophagus raw, dark curls plastered to his forehead in a sickly cold sweat.

Nervous feet hovered behind him, heels clicking lightly on tiles in a staccato beat.

“Are you okay dear? Had a bit much tonight?”

“Something like that” he croaked, as he spat into the bowl and wiped the back of his hand across stinging lips, pushing himself upright, the evidence of his guilt swirling away with the flush of a toilet chain.

He straightened with a groan, feeling the pull of wrenched abdominals from the force of the attack. (Sort it….sort it now…I have to go…) John’s final words reverberated in his head, mocking and accusing, spiteful and cold… not his John, who just last night had given everything to Sherlock, all that he had and all that he was.

Sherlock turned on the tap and held his hands under the steady stream, so cold it almost burned. He gathered the freezing liquid in cupped palms and splashed it over his clammy skin. The image in the mirror peered back, ghost-like and hunted, deep purple shadows under dull, dead eyes, white skin pulled taught over the sharp, angular contours, the same face he had seen every day at his worst, a dead man walking.

How could he have got this so fucking wrong? He had to make this right, would do anything to have John here, right now, his warm touch igniting Sherlock’s cold vampire blood. The faint buzz in his head increased in volume, as adrenaline coursed through his veins, an entire swarm of bees now, dulling the thrumming beat from the dance floor as he pushed the door wide, colour and motion an assault on his heightened senses, grating at every last nerve.

He would have known in heartbeat if John were still here in this room, his presence filling up every available space, a pull at his very core, but the emptiness was suffocating and John was his oxygen, he needed him to breathe. He had gone, he was sure, left him, driven away by the incontrovertible truth.

And it was right, as it should be, he had never deserved to keep someone like John, especially not now when the sins of his past had caught up with him at last. Sherlock had never felt that before, the deep sense of shame curling in his gut, even in the darkest of times sprawled on his back, legs spread wide or a needle in his arm pumping poison into his veins, but the reality had shone in John’s stricken face, it was over, done, he was alone.

Emotion was a burden, and it tore at his very soul, it had to stop, make it stop, make it stop….

Sherlock pushed his way through the crowds as resolve fashioned an iron cage around his heart. He didn’t want to think anymore, feel anymore, need or want or love…

He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, but he did, oh fuck how he did… He loved John Watson.

Sherlock forced the iron cage to close and with an air of finality he turned the key.

It was a matter of minutes to find a cab, and not much longer before he stood on the doorstep, key fumbling at the lock. The hall was deserted, the whole house silent and cold. Mycroft would still be at his club, he might stay there all night, as was his habit with no Greg around, as reluctant to be alone in his own head as Sherlock. The Holmes family curse, a constant stream of thought and data without rest or respite. Mycroft chose to bury himself in work while Sherlock had chosen the chemical path of sex and self-medication – and was there really any other way?

He pounded up the stairs, with no-one here there was no need for caution, and tore open the door to his room. The bed was still unmade, sheets in disarray and the urge to simply climb inside and pull the soiled covers around his body, just so he could smell him again made his breath hitch in the back of his throat. He grabbed a corner and yanked, hard, pillows jerking up and bouncing to the floor with a soft whoomph, winding acres and acres of rumpled white cotton into a makeshift bundle and stuffing it roughly in the hamper at the foot of his bed.

If he couldn’t see John or smell him or taste him then what came next would be a whole lot fucking easier Sherlock thought as he tore open the wardrobe door, and ripped his Belstaff from the hanger before throwing it on the end of the bed. He crouched down beside it, hands searching the inside pockets for a crumpled pack of cigarettes nestled in the lining, fingers closing around battered cardboard as he wondered absently if this was why he had handed over that cash this morning, his mind already racing ahead to the inevitable rejection, knowing there was only one way out…

He sat for a while on the dusty oak floor, turning the packet over and over in his sweating palms, heart racing slightly with anticipation and dread. If this didn’t destroy him, then Mycroft would for even thinking about it again, if he imagined for one second that Sherlock had actually gone as far as to buy cocaine after very nearly destroying himself, whatever the original intention might have been, then he would probably wish he was dead anyway.

No needles. He hated snorting now, despite the extended high, but Mycroft had purged each and every hiding place and it hadn’t seemed worth finding more, not when he and everyone else thought he had moved on. The hit might take longer so he could end up taking too much, preferring the almost clinical application of careful measurements, finding just the right level, dissolving white powder in liquid to maintain the illusion of control.

He thrust his right hand into his back pocket, drawing out the laminated plastic driving licence, and pushed himself to his feet, elbows braced against the mattress, hands full, before walking decisively now to the bathroom, snapping on the light with the back of his hand. The white porcelain basin with wide scalloped edging stood innocently against the wall to his right, the scene of many a similar indiscretion, the smooth shining surface provided the ideal place to cut lines and clean away the evidence after with the simple sweep of a damp cloth or finger.

He placed a folded towel on the floor at his feet and dropped to his knees, positioned at the side of the indented hollow meant for soap, and drew out the small plastic packet, tapping a little powder on to the sink top before stuffing what remained back out of sight, he might need it for later after all.

The next part was easy, muscle memory, chopping and grinding with the sharp plastic edge, until even the minutest of clumps were eliminated, as fine as sieved icing sugar, before being cut into neat symmetrical lines.

Where was John now? Had he just gone home, or had he left with someone else?

He could take his pick, of that he was certain. Sherlock could only marvel at John’s complete lack of awareness tonight, oblivious to the power he had held, as eyes had followed his progress across the dance floor in admiration and barely concealed lust. Fresh meat, a lamb to the slaughter, a thousand eyes yearning to take him apart.

The thought of someone else’s hands on his warm, creamy skin made Sherlock reel with jealousy and grief, shackled by his own ridiculous pride.

There were probably a million reasons to leave this path to destruction, to ring John again and beg his forgiveness, sweep the powder away and toss the rest down the drain, but right now, in this moment he couldn’t think of a single one that would end with John back by his side. With a rolled ten pound note poised between fingertips, he growled in frustration and anger, at himself and at the entire fucking world as he bent down his head and inhaled, swift and deep, then rocked back on his heels again with a sigh.

The effect was almost immediate, the dark cloud and heavy weight of depression and anguish swiftly obliterated, swept away, like sunlight chasing shadows across the earth, body thrumming with a new found energy and purpose as he chased another line, revelling in the sharp, eye-watering sting in his nasal passages and throat. His heart rate increased, there was a brief moment of agitation as his body adjusted to the chemical onslaught and he realised the enormity of what he had just done.

He pushed the negative thoughts aside, sweeping the residue from the basin with a damp fingertip and rubbing it liberally over tingling gums.

It didn’t matter now anyway, if he couldn’t have John then he would just be anyone’s again, go and work for Irene, an expensive fuck-toy for those willing to pay the price, and he knew exactly where to start…

~*~

“Open the fucking door” he snapped impatiently, pressing the buzzer in a rapid repetitive beat specifically calculated to annoy the shit out of anyone inside. The intercom crackled to his left and a soft voice, tired and disoriented with sleep breathed out in static bursts.

“What the fuck?....Sherlock?”

“Let me in…now…I’m freezing my balls off out here Victor”

The door clicked loudly as the external lock disengaged, granting him access to the plain and unassuming communal hallway within. The apartment was on the top floor of the four storey building, the penthouse, how appropriate, how very Victor, Sherlock sneered, taking the stairs three at a time, open coat flapping behind him as he ran, heedless of his thundering footsteps on the old wooden staircase (Just like 221B Sherlock, your flat, yours and John’s…)

He pushed the accusing voice to the back of his head as he rode the crest of the high, an electric current sending shivering sparks across the surface of his skin. The craving had never really gone, just dormant, waiting for Sherlock to change his mind, to fuck up, to turn back.

Victor’s door glowed white in the dim light as he leaned against the frame and hammered on the wood with the heel of his hand, jerking forward as it gave way suddenly, the room within dark and warm.

“Shut the fuck up, you’ll wake the whole building Sherlock” Victor hissed as he grabbed his arm and hauled him inside, closing and locking the door again with a deft click.

The lights were out, pyjama pants and sleep-mussed hair suggested he and just knocked Victor out of bed, but he hadn’t been asleep for long, the lingering smell of brandy on his warm breath as they stood, just a little too close, just inside the living room, Sherlock’s back against the wall, still panting a little after his energetic burst up four flights of stairs.

“You never answered, I didn’t expect you to come”

Victor breathed softly, as his hand reached out to caress Sherlock’s face, stroking gently down his jaw to his chin. This could only end badly, so why the fuck was he here? To punish himself…to prove how low he could go and that John was better off without him.

“Something happened…” Sherlock started, but the words seemed to stick in the back of his throat as he thought of the events that had led him here. No. he hadn’t come here to think, he had come to forget.

He lunged forward, fisting handfuls of soft blue cotton as Victor pushed back, pressing them together against the wall from chest to thigh. He grasped Sherlock’s slender wrists and yanked them above his head, pinning them there one-handed as he crushed his mouth in a bruising kiss. It was hot and frantic and brutal, fuelled by alcohol and drugs, month upon month of pent-up want, an invasion, his tongue swirled and fucked ruthlessly as Victor effortlessly took him over. Sherlock had forgotten this part, the way he had teased and pursued, flaunted his adolescent charms, confident in his seduction, only for Victor to turn the tables, take full control in a fight for dominance Sherlock could only lose until he was owned, possessed and totally out of control. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and he wouldn’t just be taken, he thought, as he wrenched his arms free and caught Victor around the waist, weight shifting and shoulder lifting as he span away from the wall, slamming Victor hard against it in his place.

“Jesus fuck Sherlock” he grunted, caught unawares by the sudden, violent switch, leaning back in for another kiss anyway, pulling Sherlock flush against him, his hard cock digging into Sherlock’s hip through the thin fabric of his pyjama pants. Who had the upper hand now, Sherlock wondered, and did he really care, as Victor’s warm hands pushed up under his clothes and traced over his chilled skin leaving a firey trail, thumbing circles around his nipples until they hardened to tight erect nubs, body responding despite the conflict in his head. He moaned so softly he wasn’t really sure he had, disgusted with himself but helplessly turned-on despite all the doubts as he let his hands drift down to cup the swell of Victor’s arse through his thin cotton pants.

“Oh god Sherlock, I want you so much “ Victor panted raggedly into his skin, in a similar heightened state as he mouthed hungrily at Sherlock’s neck and jaw, licking, nipping and sucking all the way. Oh god, it felt so good…why did it have to feel so fucking good? he thought as he tilted his head back and groaned, pulling Victor closer, feeling the drag of friction through his tight denim jeans as his hips rocked forward, instinctively seeking more. Victor pressed back, hot and hard , sucking hungrily on fevered skin, a harsh burning pain as he felt the bruise form, fading to warm liquid heat which flowed down his body, pooling hotly in his groin His eager cock throbbed, trapped against the confines of his clothes, desperate for more now, wanting skin on bare skin, an overwhelming need to touch and feel as he dared to palm Victor’s straining prick, sliding his pants down to the floor.

“Oh god….you’re so fucking wet for me Victor” he stroked long fingertips slowly down his length in wonder as Victor sucked in a shaking breath, feeling the slick slide already, pre-come flowing freely from his slit as Sherlock curled his hand around Victor’s cock and began to pump his fist.

He was fifteen years old again in a dark dusty room on New Year’s Eve, heady with desire and revelling in the thrill of seducing an older man, making him moan, making him shiver, making him come, bringing him off to the sound of Big Ben as his family cheered on the terrace below. It felt like a lifetime ago, so much had happened since, the anger, the hurt, lashing out at the world and at himself, longing to be right here again as he chased after a ghost with anyone who would lie down. And finally, here Victor was, solid and real and melting under his hand once more, as his fingers tugged lightly at Sherlock’s soft dark curls, and panted hotly in his ear.

“Oh fuck Sherlock…oh god…ahh…” he jerked Victor harder, he was so hot and wet, a slight twist of the wrist, his thumb flicking out over the head, circling around in a teasing dance, feeling the tension build in every muscle and fibre until Victor unravelled and came, spilling out over his clenched fist, thick and warm, staining his t-shirt and jeans. He stroked him through it, milking the last few pearly drops, fingers fully coated in viscous fluid, before bringing them up to his lips for a taste, the musky tang of sex on his tongue.

“You’re still such a goddamn fucking tease ” Victor groaned as he watched him lick each digit clean, before offering up a sticky palm, mouth still shining and wet.

“Go ahead… you know you want to” he said, as the room began to sway.

“Come to bed…I want to take you apart…” Victor growled as Sherlock pitched forward clinging to his waist.

Bed…a bed would be good he thought, as his limbs turned to lead, suddenly so heavy and tired. Soft pillows, cool sheets, a warm naked body and…freezing cold feet. Cold feet. John. His bed. Pressing over him. Inside him.

I don’t care.

He’s gone.

My fault.

I don’t fucking care.

An insistent voice in the back of his head whispered ‘wrong’ and he swirled his tongue around Victor’s mouth in retaliation, ‘you do care, stop, stop now’ the voice scraped at edge of his conscious brain as he slowly began his descent, the edge wearing off now, much faster than he remembered….maybe he hadn’t taken enough?

The soft firm lips pressed against his own felt suddenly strange and alien, they really should have been rough and sort of chapped he thought, and the smoothed shaved face even stranger again…where was the sandpaper scratch of second day stubble that made his soft skin itch and sting? He was sweating now too, a bead of liquid gathered on his upper lip, a heavy drop rolled down into his panting mouth, every sense on high alert.

The taste was wrong…oh fuck what was wrong?

More sweat formed and he brushed it away with an irritated growl, smeared across his fingertips and Victor’s face, dark splashes on the neck of his shirt, sticky to the touch, the distinctive copper tang of blood. They pulled away from each other in horror as Victor stared at him, wide-eyed in the gloom.

“You’re fucking bleeding Sherlock….I can taste your damn blood in my mouth….oh my god what the hell have you done?”

He could feel it now, a steady drip, drip from his nose, dark splashes staining the hardwood floor.

“Well you’re fucking drunk Victor” he snapped, in irritation and fear “ I can smell it on your breath…at least four…no…five… rather generous measures of single malt, the good stuff that Daddy buys…but you didn’t buy it yourself, did you... you just nicked a bottle from his house instead, oh and that bloke you slept with three nights ago hasn’t called you back since has he?…got a very distinctive cologne, only available on import, I could smell it on your skin, and that’s because you haven’t even bothered to change your fucking sheets!”

He was screaming in his face, almost nose to nose, and doing nothing to stem the flow.

“Stop it!....you are not going to stand there and fucking deduce me you arrogant little prick…do you think this is some sort of game Sherlock?”

“Isn’t it? So it isn’t playing games to sext me when you know damn well I’m out with my boyfriend? ….He saw them you stupid fucking twat, and now he’s gone!”

Victor snapped on the light.

“Jesus Christ Sherlock”

He almost laughed as a bubble of hysterical mirth mingled with outright panic in his gut. Victor, mouth smeared red with Sherlock’s bloody fingerprints all over his face and neck like a horror movie victim, glared back, incredulous, until he sprang forward and grabbed a large fistful of Sherlock’s hair, yanking his face towards the light as he peered into his eyes.

“You’re high”

Victor’s voice was cold and flat as he pushed Sherlock away and covered his face with his hands.

He braced for the oncoming storm.

“You’re completely off your face Sherlock…. you told me you were clean….what the hell? Have you gone mad? So I guess in some twisted way this is my fault is it, that you’re standing in my flat in the middle of the night off your head on coke? It is coke I’m guessing, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, wanking me off and then giving a bloody convincing impression of someone who’s gagging for a damn good fuck!”

“And what did I have left to lose exactly? I’ve lost everything already…and anyway, you were hardly trying to fight me off Victor….if it wasn’t for the nose bleed I’d be balls deep in your arse right now!”

“That’s not even the point Sherlock…. Did you even stop and think before you jumped right off the deep end? How the hell could you do this to yourself again? Christ, for someone who’s supposed to be so damn intelligent you can be incredibly fucking thick”

“Fuck you Victor…I’ll do whatever the hell I want, you don’t fucking own me…..I bet you’d have me on a leash if you could…”

“If it would stop you from killing yourself, yeah, I might… but only if I pay you…isn’t that right?”

“Go screw yourself”

“Didn’t you already take care of that?”

Victor broke away and paced the floor in agitation and utter cold fury, face ashen as he muttered variations on the theme of ‘oh god, Jesus Christ and fuck no’ as Sherlock stood frozen in front of a growing puddle of his own blood, still dripping freely from his recently abused nose, reminding him exactly why he had started to inject instead. Victor stopped pacing only long enough to hurl a large box of Kleenex across the room at his head shouting “Clean yourself up for god’s sake Sherlock, you’re an absolute fucking mess”, before stalking out of the room and slamming the kitchen door so hard that it rattled in its frame, way past caring about the noise that they made.

Fucking hell, he felt light-headed and his temples pulsed with a dull aching pain, the beginnings of a hangover, and then some. How easy it had been to forget this part, all the bad shit, the crash as he came down fast. Only a few short months ago he would have been chasing another couple of lines right now, up all night dancing and crawl home around dawn, but all he wanted tonight was sleep and John, neither of which he was going to get.

Sherlock spat into a tissue and dabbed at the dried, crusty blood on his nose and face. He had just wanked his ex for god’s sake, came here and fucking begged for it, or as good as, and Victor had only been too eager to oblige. If his nose hadn’t bled he would probably have fucked the bastard too, if Victor even took it up the arse that is, Sherlock didn’t even know.

He didn’t know… The realisation hit as the drugs relinquished their hold. He had no idea who Victor Trevor was, beyond their superficial friendship from the past. A few family dinners, a party or two, the odd stolen hour in Mycroft’s study, always under the scrutiny of others’ eyes. He was almost as hard to read as John Watson was, a puzzle to solve, that had always been part of the fun. And what else? A wank and one fuck, well, technically two of the former if you counted tonight, and then nothing for almost two years. After all, Sherlock was a totally different person now, well, he was still a rude, obnoxious dick, that hadn’t changed. A cocky manipulative bastard , and good at it too, but Victor had seen through it all and let him be himself, and that was what had drawn him here. But they were both too volatile, they would destroy each other in the end and he had known that from the start.

Stupid fucking sentiment, this was why he never got involved, just get off and move on, because the alternative was just too bloody hard…

He had to leave. Now.

“Sit down before you fall down for fuck’s sake”

Victor snapped as he re-entered the room with a cleaning cloth and spray, crouching down to wipe at the mess on the floor. His shaking legs were willing him to obey the command but he stood, stubbornly swaying by the door.

“You look like shit by the way”

“How kind of you to say so, not looking so hot yourself Victor, red really isn’t your colour”

“Fuck you Sherlock, it isn’t funny”

“I’m not laughing”

“No, and neither will Mycroft be when he finds out what you’ve done”

“Are you going to tell him? I think not….the evil predator who defiled his baby brother? They’d be pulling your cold dead corpse out of the Thames by the end of the week”.

It was a cheap shot but it worked and Victor went an interesting shade of green clashing horribly with the generous smears of red. It was unfair, he knew because he was the one who was high, and no-one had made him come here. They were both in the firing line now.

“We can’t do this again Victor”

“You came here tonight…some part of you wanted this Sherlock and you already know how I feel about you”

“So that gives you right to fuck around with my head? I love John… but now he’s gone, because of you!”

The hardwood floor pitched beneath his feet, his hand on the door, the only thing holding him in place. He had said it out loud and now it was horribly real, but it was the wrong time and the wrong place.

“And your solution is to jump right back into bed with me? If you love him so much then why the hell are you here…doesn’t he give you what you want?"

Victor spat, sarcastically, as he wrenched open the door “And what the hell do you know about love Sherlock Holmes? When you can’t even love yourself?”…..

The words still rang in his ears as he made his way through the cold dark streets, no clear destination in mind, home out of the question for now, and pulled out his phone, running numb fingers along the cracked screen. It sprang to life, and its bright light illuminated the space around him.

Eight missed messages.

All from John.

His stomach lurched and his heart skipped a beat…how had he missed this…how? Carried away by a haze of drugs and sex… Oh god, what did they say…did he even want to know after what he’d just done? Victor might have put the nail in the coffin back there at the club, but he had fucking buried it six feet under since.

A strange sensation wholly unfamiliar, prickled behind his eyes, hot and tight, as a saline stream pushed tracks through the blood on his face and he blinked rapidly, transfixed by the words on the screen

‘ _just let me know you’re okay x’_

No, he really wasn’t okay.

I’m so sorry John.

A rectangle of light arced through the air and connected with a splash, sinking down into the swirling black water of the Thames.

~*~

Where the hell were all the taxi’s when you needed one? John grumbled to himself as he walked along the deserted streets, arms clasped around his body to keep out the biting cold.

He never felt safe in London after dark, at least not when he was alone, when every shadow held a potential threat. He wasn’t a coward, not in that sense, could easily handle himself in a fight, be he doubted whether an attacker in the dark gave a shit about the concept of fair.

A mate of his, Chris, had been mugged last year, got separated from his group on a sightseeing tour and stabbed in the back for an I-pod and twenty quid…he never even saw their face, and no-one came forward to help. And all that happened in broad daylight, fifty yards from Oxford Street, and not a witness in sight?

He popped his collar against the wind and walked on, head down.

He was already wired from the events of that night, mind on overdrive as a faint buzz of alcohol still sang in his veins. Dancing in the club, the colour, the noise, and Sherlock….oh god…Sherlock. He should never have lost control, shouting like a madman who lashed out with his fists, and Jesus Christ his hand hurt, a cracked bone for sure, but no more than he deserved. He hadn’t lost it like that since his dad died, when black eyes and bruises were a weekly affair, but that wasn’t who he was anymore and it made him feel sick as he remembered the look on Sherlock’s face, the devastation and fear in his eyes….

Shit John, you stupid, stupid fuck!

It had been enough to make Sherlock run, and now he wouldn’t answer his calls, another straight to voicemail as he slipped it back into his pocket with a sigh.

“Jesus fucking hell” he threw himself back, arms windmilling wildly as a skinny black cat sprang out of the alley to his left, bright eyes like lasers in the dark. It hissed and spat, a ball of feline fury before scurrying quickly out of sight as his heart hammered wildly in his chest.

Talk about jumpy – what the hell was wrong with him tonight? He was a walking bag of nerves.

He darted quickly past the dark gaping space, thankful for the reassuring presence of tall buildings at his side and the occasional car that swept by.

A dark grey delivery van pulled up further ahead and he hesitated yet again, scanning for a cab, senses on high alert. Christ, you would think he’d been spiked he was so fucking paranoid, sucked into Sherlock’s murky world of crime. The van cut its lights but no-one got out.

Shit. Should he cross the street, turn back, or just keep on straight? John hovered on the edge of indecision, instinct screaming at him to run, a nagging voice in the back of his head that had followed him across town from the club. He let out a sharp breath as the drivers’ door opened and a man jumped out, white overalls almost glowing in the dark, just a builder or plasterer, most likely and not a shady member of the criminal underclass after all. He crossed to an all-night café and didn’t even turn his head.

That might be a good plan, go in and buy a tea, he was gagging for a cup and it would be warm and safe, another hour should be enough, more people, more cars or a bus, it was Sunday and he could just crash, sleep until lunch and try Sherlock again, his stuff was still there after all. His feet turned towards the kerb, lured by the smell of buttered toast on the air as the door swung closed.

He froze as he felt a sharp press of steel to his back.

“Don’t move and don’t make a single sound kid”

Oh god. John’s blood turned to ice in his veins. How the hell had he not heard? He had been distracted by thoughts of Sherlock and hot tea, and the stupid fucking cat. He knew there was a reason why he hated the damn things other than the way they left shit in your garden and hair in your bed, like Ginger, the cantankerous old bastard that had lived next door who had made him the victim of many a needle-clawed attack.

How many were there? Just one, or more? He strained his ears against the background mumur of the city streets (breath, rustle of clothing, feet scuffing on hard ground), It was useless, there was no way to tell with his back to a blade, every sense honed in on that cold, stinging point.

Sherlock would know, in an instant would tell their life story, just from the smell of their breath – breath that currently puffed putrid and hot in his ear as a large hand wrapped around the back of his neck, jerking him roughly around, towards the gaping black cleft between buildings. His reluctant feet skittered helplessly on the ground, desperate to hold back (somebody see…please somebody help) as he struggled to arch his back away from the knife at the same time.

“Now, now gorgeous, no need to put up a fight, we just want a friendly little word in your ear, is all” a soft leering voice whispered, dark and threatening, as a deep knot of panic formed in his gut and paralysed his chest (calm down John…calm down…calm the fuck down) as he was dragged into the darkness and out of sight.

The place stank of old rubbish and piss, he noticed, as water splashed under his feet…he hoped it was water, at least, the air hanging oppressive and damp, sound muffled from the street beyond. He forced himself to breathe in and out in a steady rhythm to calm his terrified body and clear his racing mind, the endless horrific outcomes all too vivid and real, playing like a crime scene montage in his head.

He needed to think…what would Sherlock tell him to do? We? That guy had said ‘we’, so definitely more than one…where the hell were the rest?

His eyes darted frantically, unable to move his head, taking in as much of the scene as he could, as his senses slowly adjusted to the absence of light. He couldn’t see shit, just vague shapes in the dark, a skip, industrial bins, maybe the vague outline of a door. Impatient feet shuffled in the darkness as a wide looming shadow detatched from the rest, the barest hint of a large bulky frame. The figure surged forward, fast for a man of his size, and reached out a heavily muscled arm towards him, hand clutching his jaw in a vice like grip as he twisted John’s head from side to side, huge sausage fingers digging in so tight he feared the bone could break as his teeth were forced into the soft flesh of his cheeks. He tasted the sharp copper tang of his own blood as it began to fill his mouth.

“You sure it’s him?” a low husky voice cut through the silence

“Yeah, but on his own…been following him for a least half an hour and the twink boyfriend aint here….Trent’s on the lookout though…he won’t get far…”

Oh Christ, they meant Sherlock but…they hadn’t found him, just John on his own, but they were out looking right now. Trent, the meat-head from the other night, American like this one too, if they caught him what the hell would they do? He jerked against the restraint, huffing out an angry breath through his nose.

“Aw, looks like we struck a nerve there Mick…a lovers tiff maybe…what’s up sugar, did he dump you at the club? Found himself a daddy to treat his little twink-ass right?” the leering voice mocked as a hand stole down and groped at his arse, lingering there, hot and vile.

“Uck…ew” he forced out the words past his distorted lips, hating them all the more for hitting close to the truth, but he wouldn’t sell Sherlock out, not for anything, no matter what.

His jaw was released with a harsh barking laugh.

“He’s not my boyfriend, just a friend, that’s all”

Whatever Sherlock was to him now, he would always be that at least, as far as John was concerned.

“Oh yeah? Nice try kid, but not according to tonight’s live footage…quite the little sex-show I think…suck on all your friends necks like that do you kid? Or only the very special kind?"

The American’s lascivious grin flashed white in the dark.

“Can’t say I blame you though, a face like that, and that body too…oh my…bet he goes like a steam train too…and don’t get me started on that mouth, I’m getting hard right now just thinking about those lips wrapped around my dick” their hideous laughter rang hollow in his ears, he couldn’t stand to hear them talk about Sherlock like that, as if he was a piece of meat, a pretty, vacuous toy, they didn’t know him, how could they even dare…

A cold ball of fury settled in his chest.

“Didn’t you have something to say, or were you just going to stand around and chat all night?” he spat angrily, his voice sounding much braver than he felt…brave or incredibly fucking stupid he thought with a gasp as the point of the blade pricked hard at his side, and the tip sliced through two layers of fabric to jab the bare skin beneath. He hissed and arched away as the clammy hand squeezed tighter on the back of his head.

“Just shut the fuck up smart ass, and listen up good, we have a message for your dumb little cock-sucking fag….stop sticking his fucking nose where it aint supposed to go. Been asking questions my boss hears, about stuff that don’t concern him, and he’d better back off if he wants that pretty little face to stay pretty”

His boss, the footage from the club, he could only mean Doug Miller the owner and the big guy must be one of his sons. He thought of Irene and if they had seen them talking tonight… was it her? had she told them what Sherlock had asked her about? …but she had seemed so sincere, that she liked Sherlock, even cared. John felt slightly sick as he thought about their little encounter tonight. She had been quick to spill the beans, when asked what she knew, risky in the middle of the club where she worked, and after his row with Sherlock had been a convenient shoulder to cry on, materialising from no-where at his side at the bar, the promise of free alcohol and a sympathetic ear. And he had gone with her, without question, let her lead him right out of the club to her private room, pouring drink after drink as he lost track of time…..

Oh my god, he had left the club… how long was he away? It had only felt like minutes at the time, but long enough for Sherlock to think he had gone, that John had bailed on him like a coward and run away….that’s why he hadn’t been there when he’d returned….. Sherlock thought it was over…..

It all made such horrible, perfect sense, get them apart and grab one, or both, but Sherlock had slipped the net somehow and he was caught, like a rat in a trap.

He hoped to fuck they would just make it quick.

“Whatever he thinks he knows, he’s wrong” the voice rasped again “and who’s gonna believe some little junkie whore…oh yeah, we know all about that too babe, got some gorgeous home movies too, would get a million hits easy I would say…might just have to put that to the test… but just so he gets the message loud and clear you’re gonna help us show him we mean exactly what we say… enough talk.….let him have it Mick”

A split second of relief…the knife left his skin as the man stepped away and relinquished his grip on John’s neck, before his whole world exploded in a kaleidoscope of searing hot pain. A meaty fist connected with his gut knocking the air from his lungs as he bent double and fell to the ground, black spots outlined in bright white dancing in front of his eyes as he fought to drag in a breath, lungs screaming in protest.

Fight, John, fight! He couldn’t even manage to shout out because he could barely even breathe. He tried to stand up, grit and stone biting at his knees and palms, only to be slammed back down by a heavy-booted kick to his side, pain radiating out through his torso and legs as he tried to curl in on himself again. (Shit. If that was his kidneys he’d be pissing blood for a week.) Fists rained down on his shoulders, chest and ribs, the other fucker joining in too now, he thought, as his mind disconnected from the vicious assault, another John floating above, watching the wreck of a small body on the ground. Darkness pulled at the edges of his vision, almost making it complete.

Sherlock…oh god I’m sorry Sherlock…I love you.

A small dog was barking in the distance, but drawing closer, small and shrill.

“Time to go Mick…I do believe our work here is done”

A hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, dragging him up from the ground.

“This aint Scooby Doo kid and there is no mystery to solve…do I make myself clear?”

Before a single word could come out of his mouth a fist like concrete slammed hard into the side of his skull…and the world went black....

~*~

John drifted into consciousness as a rough, wet tongue lapped eagerly at his face and a wet sticky nose pressed into his cheek and snuffled loudly. He forced his eyes open with a groan, Christ it fucking hurt, and curled on his side on the hard damp ground. Every muscle and bone protested as he gingerly tried to move, stretching out arms and legs, fingers and toes. Bloody hell he felt like one giant fucking bruise. He tried to sit up and his vision swam as a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him.

Not dead then , that was something at least, although it did just feel like he’d been hit by a truck, a solid six feet two inch truck with fists of steel. John sat for a minute, head cradled between his knees, as the scrawny jack russell licked enthusiastically at his ear.

“Fuck off mate please” he swatted at the small furry form and it trailed away sadly, deprived of its game.

No blood, that was something at least, he dabbed carefully at the corners of his mouth…just what had come from his cheeks then, the insides raw and scraped. He needed to get home, now, shower and sleep, but get Mike to check him over first, he might very well be concussed, just mugged if Mike asked, got unlucky on the walk home…it wasn’t too far from the truth.

The walk home was painful and slow, but he doubted a cab would take him like this, in his filthy dishevelled state, jeans all wet and caked in stinking dirt from the piss soaked ground. A few people stared as he staggered along, got pissed and passed out in the street they probably all thought, well, let them think that, he just didn’t care. The dream of that hot shower and a warm bed pushed him on…and Sherlock…he had to make sure he was okay.

The University campus was a glorious sight as the tree-lined street came into view, almost sobbing with relief ten minutes later as he slid his key card into the door and let himself into the flat. The clock in the kitchen showed 6.00am as he filled a mug with cold water, taking small tentative sips, gulping more deeply when sure it would stay down. He stripped where he stood and dumped the clothes by the kitchen bin to deal with later and ran careful hands over his bare skin, prodding and poking gently as he went, his torso a beautiful mix of deep purple and blue.

The door clicked open behind him.

“Hey there John…what are you doing back here this early, I thought you were staying at Sherlock’s last night?....Jesus fucking Christ John, what the hell happened?” Mike’s eyes went wide.

John whirled around as Mike padded in, pausing in the doorway in shock and surprise.

“Mugged…jumped on the way home” the less Mike knew about this the better, he didn’t want anyone else involved.

“And where the fuck was Sherlock Did they get him too?”

John’s heart clenched, no they didn’t get him, but if he didn’t warn him, they would soon.

“He was er…we…he left earlier…it was just me…on my own” he stuttered in answer, unwillingly to voice his deepest fear, that it was over, they were done.

“Ah right…er…sorry mate, I won’t even ask” Mike looked away nervously, not wanting to push him to explain “…but shit John, did you call the police? Whoever that was gave you a right good kicking, you look a fucking mess”

(Fuck no, if he did that they would both end up dead)

“Yeah mate I know, I was there…No point in reporting it though…I didn’t see a thing, they grabbed me from behind….I have to see Sherlock” he swayed slightly as the pain and fatigue washed over him again and he sagged against the kitchen bench.

He needed to see him now, just to know he was okay, and that would be enough, it just had to be enough. But John knew when it came to Sherlock it never ever would be. His body however had other plans and he pitched forward as his legs gave way at last.

“Fuck Sherlock, you’re not going anywhere mate, that skinny little shit will just have to wait…if you won’t go to the hospital then you’re staying right here, twenty-four hours observation or I’ll drag you to A&E myself”

~*~

Mycroft Holmes awoke to the rather musical sound of breaking glass, somewhere on the floor below. He sat up abruptly, and dislodged Greg’s sleeping form with a groan. It was Sunday morning, about seven a.m., and he had only been in bed since three, giving in to fatigue for once, before Sherlock and John had had a chance to appear, last seen entering Powerhouse nightclub so he had been told… ah, the joys of youth.

There was no need to wake Greg, he could deal with this alone, it was only the pantry window in the kitchen after all which left exactly one possibility….

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes, it hadn’t even been one week… and he had had such high hopes this time, but then this was Sherlock after all…

“And what exactly do you think you are doing brother mine” he said as he entered the kitchen and snapped on the light, “Didn’t the lock pick work this time?”

Sherlock sat scowling on a kitchen stool spooning honey into his mouth directly from the jar. He was absolutely filthy, hair a wild tangle and blood on his face.

“No Mycroft, but the Tungsten tip worked just fine” he said, with a triumphant smile, brandishing a dull lump of metal the size of a pea on the end of a short length of cord.

My God, thought Mycroft, wherever did he learn such tricks? Quite frankly, he never knew quite whether to be appalled or impressed at the sheer ingenuity of the boy. Whatever the obstacle he would find a way around it…if only he applied the same diligence to his emotional affairs.

“And as for what I am doing right now, I would have thought that was obvious Mycroft dear, would you like to have a lick?” Sherlock smirked suggestively, drawing the spoon from his lips.

Oh for god’s sake, not this again, please.

“Don’t be disgusting Sherlock” he answered in a calm, measured tone…best to ignore it when he was behaving like this, the precocious little brat…

“Where have you been all night?, you look like you slept in a skip”.

“You’re powers are slipping brother darling, a bench in Regent’s Park, although there was a rather large bin nearby”

“And John?” he asked, although he already knew.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed darkly for an instant before returning his look with a defiant stare. He was right then, although it gave him no satisfaction this time.

“I have no idea, home I expect…I didn’t bother to ask” Sherlock replied airily, tongue poking out as he sucked the spoon clean before digging around for more.

(Or John didn’t gave you the chance to, more likely… oh when would he ever learn?)

“And what was it this time Sherlock?….have you been a little…indiscreet?”

Sherlock froze, spoon halfway to his open mouth as golden blobs of honey fell to the table, in sticky glutinous drips.

“In the end, are you really so obvious Sherlock? Thank you for confirming what I already know”

“And what exactly would that be Mycroft? Sherlock spat with an angry glare.

Really, it was most unlike him to be so slow, surely he couldn’t have made it plainer if he’d tried.

“You have renewed an old acquaintance, so it would appear, yesterday , if you want me to be precise….. How long did it take before you slept with him Sherlock? Did you wait for the whole day… or were you really _eager_ to impress?”

“Fuck you Mycroft”

“Oh no, I rather think Mr Trevor had that pleasure it would seem….and don’t try to deny it Sherlock, you smell like a brothel and look a damn sight worse…didn’t go quite according to plan I believe?”

Was that a flicker relief in his brother’s eyes? What on earth had he missed? It was a sobering and quite frankly terrifying thought that the one person in the world who could hide the truth from Mycroft Holmes was standing in front of him now.

When it came to Sherlock there was always something else, and Mycroft was always too late.

“If you’ve quite finished discussing my sex life Mycroft , may I be excused?” Sherlock rose as he spoke, voice low and silky as sarcasm oozed from every pore, not actually bothering to wait for permission as he swept out through the door.

~*~

Sherlock let out a deep sigh of relief as he let himself out into the hall, the first major hurdle overcome.

You couldn’t be a successful junkie without becoming something of an expert in the art of deceit.

It had been a simple enough calculation in the end, what did Mycroft hate more at this moment in time? Four months ago it would have been drugs, but Mycroft would know they had met up by now as there was bound to be a tap on his phone, and after all, as he’d already said, Victor was a big boy and could look after himself.

Would he really be so obvious? No Mycroft – that’s you!

It was quite easy after that, disarm Mycroft first with his own very special distraction technique. A little harmless flirting (or acting like a brazen little tart) usually did the trick, and it was always fun to watch him squirm, even though Mycroft made out he didn’t care. He didn’t mean anything by it they both knew that of course, but it still made him flustered and cross. One of his more evil tricks, cruel perhaps, but served a clear purpose and was effective in the end. Mycroft had focused on Victor and John and failed to notice the rest. A night sleeping rough had covered it well, but still….no sign of a fight and blood on his face and clothes? Really Mycroft…..you should have seen it as plain as day.

It was only a matter of time though… he might have another week or two at best and there was always Greg to worry about too, Mycroft’s handy sniffer dog, annoyingly immune to all Sherlock’s tricks who had seen straight through him the very first time they had met, speaking of which….

“Mycroft not pressing charges then? I take it you’ve just put the window out again?”

“ Ah Greg…your powers of observation are as outstanding as ever I see”

“That’s right, you cocky little bastard, don’t think for one minute you can put one past me” he peered closely at Sherlock as they passed by the stairs, and he lowered his eyes, palms sweating nervously at his sides.

“Had a bit of a nasty nose bleed I see…now I wonder, what the hell could have made it do that? Bit strange don’t you think, a fit healthy lad like you?”

“And what exactly are you implying Lestrade?”

“Oh I don’t know…a drugs bust maybe…just for old time’s sake?”, he grinned broadly.

Oh fuck…the bastard really meant it too. He stalked past with his nose in the air and flipped him off as he stomped up the stairs.

“And I can tell you fell out with John too…don’t be an idiot Sherlock, he’s good for you”

~*~

“He made the wrong choice then?”

“So it would seem”

It was all too calm, that Greg could see. He didn’t know quite how the little shit had pulled it off, but Mycroft had definitely not seen.

Mycroft looked up from his cup with a sigh. Best not mention he was back on the drugs then, hopefully the threat of a search had stopped that in its tracks. He eyed Mycroft warily. He might miss the odd trick with Sherlock, but to him, Greg was an open book. Damn.

“Oh don’t look at me like that Greg, for goodness sake just tell me what I missed”

Ah well, so much for secrecy.

“Well you do realise he had a skinfull last night and I’m definitely not talking about one too many drinks”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully “Irritation and inflammation of the nasal passages…yes, I did wonder, but one can’t help but hope, you see”

“Just out of interest Greg," he added "what activity that you know of would require the use of a Tungsten tip?”

Greg did nothing to mask the look of surprise on his face. This was another thing to add to Sherlock’s ever growing catalogue of petty crime, and there was only so much he could do to keep him out of the system. Mycroft would pull every string he could, but in the end would that actually do a damn thing to reign Sherlock in?

“Really? The sly little shit….er…car breaking, to pop a window Myc….one quick flick and it shatters the glass, almost no noise if you get it right. Virtually all the little twats in juvenile detention know that little trick…doesn’t work quite so well in the kitchen I think”

“Yes, indeed” Mycroft gave a hollow laugh “What fascinating company my brother seems to keep…I do hope it won’t be necessary to move schools again…pity about the Watson boy, six whole days, he was doing so well”

“Yeah well, we might just be able to do something about that don’t you think?”

“Oh god, I’m not going to regret this am I Greg?”

“Don’t worry, just leave it to me, I’ll just get you some noise cancelling headphones Myc, my treat”

~*~

It was Monday morning around ten a.m as John paced nervously on the pavement outside the school gates.

He had a vague recollection of the day before, collapsing in the kitchen, Mike helping him to bed, then putting all their new-found medical knowledge to the test, until John felt thoroughly….examined. Mike had even strapped his fingers, left pinky and ring, against his better judgement he was quick to maintain. But John was determined, to be treated off the record and refused point blank to go in for an x-ray, his point being, the doctors would have done exactly the bloody same.

So, here he stood, doped up on Codeine, stomach a nervous flutter just at the thought of seeing Sherlock again.

Shit, he needed to move his arse, he thought as a few passers-by cast glances his way. He didn’t look that out of place though, barely out of school himself and on the small side for his age, he could easily pass for an ex-student just back for a visit. He hesitated on the threshold anyway.

It was obviously morning break, the school grounds humming with the distant chatter of several hundred children all in one space. And Sherlock. Sherlock would be in there too. He wouldn’t have to go in and ask – it was better this way.

Shit, he felt like a little kid before a first date, a ridiculous mix of nerves and excitement, that he should have outgrown years ago, making him feel thoroughly sick. On the other hand, it could just be the extra strong painkillers currently pumping through his veins…the perks of studying medicine.

Get over yourself Watson, he’s not going to bite…well, not much…. but maybe just a little, he hoped, as he sauntered down the driveway doing little to conceal his spontaneous lop-sided smile. Two girls that passed by him stopped to giggle and stare. Oh god, smooth move you idiot. Girls, yeah, he had almost forgotten about those. If only his classmates could see him now – straight John Watson the most popular kid at school, a string of pretty girls in tow, falling in love for the first time with a bloke.

He had to stop thinking like that, Sherlock might not want him back.

The ominous silence since Saturday night spoke volumes and almost stopped him in his tracks.

Oh fuck, there he was…it was him.

A heavy weight settled in his chest. A skinny pale figure a good head taller than the rest pushed open a door across the yard and stepped out. Even at a distance he stood out a mile, tall and proud, back ram-rod straight, gliding across the open ground with an effortless grace. He was heading in the opposite direction, moving even further away, hand digging into his pocket in a very familiar way.

(Sherlock Holmes you little rebel, sneaking round the back of the gym for a crafty cigarette).

It was definitely the gym, John thought, the sports hall at his old school had a similar design. He could tell by the length of the building and the long narrow windows set high as Sherlock trod down a narrow gravel path that ran all along one side.

It was typical that Sherlock would be outside the gym rather than in it he chuckled despite himself. He imagined him in his gym kit, long slim legs in baggy shorts, acres of milky skin on show. Oh god, he needed to stop that train of thought right now, as the image suddenly changed to Sherlock’s firm, lithe limbs wrapped tight around his naked waist.

He looked over again as a group of four boys approached Sherlock from behind, friends perhaps, but they really didn’t look his type. The beefy blond in front called out to him as they drew near, but Sherlock walked on in the same relaxed way as if he hadn’t heard. As for what he was saying John couldn’t quite hear, but definitely nothing good, he could tell. It was there in the set of Sherlock’s shoulders and the way his arms tensed at his sides. John quickened his pace.

“Oi! I was talking to you Homo”

Oh shit. John’s heart sank.

“Yes…..but as you obviously fail to comprehend James, I am not. Talking. To. You.” Sherlock replied, each word punctuated with a sarcastic sneer, as he whirled around to face them, patience finally worn through.

This would not end well.

Maybe he should just get this over and done with right now and jump right in.

“Hey! Sherlock!”

Five heads snapped round to stare as he jogged up the path, doing his best to ignore a throbbing ache in his side as his heart stuttered madly in his chest. The only one he registered was Sherlock, face pinched in both pain and surprise.

(If he tells me to fuck off right now, I think I’ll probably die)

Close to, the blond guy was big and wide, three smaller, lighter friends lingering close behind. Fucking cowards, four against one, nice, just the sort of odds he liked. If he was fit. Which he wasn’t. Shit. Well, he could still do some damage if need be, fucked-up body be damned. After all, they didn’t know he wouldn’t be able to fight…yet.

He approached with a casual smile.

“Hi there lad’s…is there a problem here?” he glanced from face to stupid face and was fixed with three blank vacant stares, the fourth however…. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow questioningly and gave an imperceptible shake of the head. Too late – he was in this thing now.

The big guy, James, fixed him with a searching glare and then smirked, knowingly, as his eyes flashed with an evil intent.

“Well fuck me lads, if it isn’t the faggot boyfriend, the one with the massive dick”

Ah, an idiot with a death wish. Oh god he had missed this. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at him and heaved a dramatic sigh. What no snarky comment to make? Well if Sherlock wouldn’t then most certainly would.

“Massive dick? Yeah, I’ll take that, It’s true if you’d like to see. But I’d quite like some alone time with my boyfriend right now, if you know what I mean”

He shouldered past and risked a cheeky wink. Hang on a minute, John stopped and rotated slowly back around…. this must be the arsehole who’d made a mess of Sherlock’s face and got him suspended for almost a week. The last remnants of bruising had only just disappeared from Sherlock’s face, but a promise was a promise after all and he had sworn that that person would pay.

“John….just leave it please” Sherlock called softly, knowing exactly what was in his mind.

“I don’t think so, not this time, I promised….if someone hurts you…they pay”

“Who the fuck do you think you are mate” James broke into a harsh barking laugh “you gonna take us all on by yourself….fucking dick”.

It was the mocking tone, the sheer arrogant belief that they had John beat, that he couldn’t take them on, that he was too weak. But last night…they had held a knife to his back and kicked the shit out of him too and here he was, despite their best efforts, still standing, and he would never, ever let anyone make him feel so vulnerable again.

“Oh, I really don’t have to take on all four…I just want you” he smiled with satisfaction as the colour drained from the chubby blond face ,and before he could himself time to think he fisted his hands in grey wool and snapped his head back before he propelled himself forward with a resounding smack. The dull stab of pain barely registered amongst all the rest and James fell back heavily on his arse in the dirt.

Head butt, yeah, that would do the trick.

A broken nose spilled scarlet over the damp ground.

Again.

His second in less than a week.

Fuck.

He grabbed a slender wrist and pulled, not daring to look behind. Sherlock followed, warm and wonderfully solid under his hand, pulse racing beneath his skin.

“You are such a fucking idiot John”, he puffed out as they ran.

Down the path, turn a corner, through a gate, over a low fence and up a metal stairwell to a low paved space. They stood, bent over at the waist drawing in long heaving breaths as the adrenaline ebbed away.

“Won’t they find us here?, we should probably move” John managed finally as he glanced over the side and looked down.

“Relax, nobody else knows about this place” Sherlock yanked away from his grip and stalked over to the edge of an old raised flower bed, (a roof garden then?) now an empty graveyard of soil and old cigarettes. He perched on the narrow side and lit up with a defiant air, just daring John to object. John didn’t. It was the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

“I was coming here anyway” he blew smoke at John’s face “ You have however, made things ten times worse, I can handle those morons just fine on my own…I’m not your poor little damsel in distress for fuck’s sake…. and you can’t _save_ me”

His stomach lurched at the smooth, cold demeanour and sarcastic sneer. Sherlock narrowed his alien eyes and took another long, slow drag.

Hostile.

It could hardly come as a massive surprise. He’d scared the shit out of them both that night and the walls had gone up, but he just had to try…

Sherlock fixed him with a steely glare, almost like a dare as he drew near. The hand holding the cigarette trembled slightly. Good, at least he wasn’t the only one going crazy here.

“That’s not quite the reaction I got the last time I punched someone for you”

A flicker of a smile?

Progress.

“In fact, as I seem to recall, you just about ripped my clothes off there and then, we almost gave Mycroft a proper eyeful”

It was Sherlock’s turn to flush this time, faint pink splotches on his cheeks and neck as their eyes locked again.

He sat down with a wince at Sherlock’s side, the cold brick seeped through and chilled his arse through his jeans and the boy beside him tensed, his body undecided whether to bolt or give in. This hadn’t been part of the plan. He had come to say sorry for being a dick and to warn him that people were on the lookout, Doug Miller and his gang. It wasn’t a game anymore, they needed to stop this now before one of them ended up dead, and last night he very nearly had. But he was so close now John could count every freckle dusting over his pale skin .

“Sherlock…”

“John…please”

The barest brush of lips against his own and he was gone, and Sherlock melted into him as he gently cupped his face. He licked inside that gorgeous mouth and savoured the taste of cigarettes and smoky air, both disgusting and divine as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and dragged him further in. He flinched at the pressure on his bruised and aching ribs, but this just felt too damn good to stop now, he pressed closer, leaning in. Fuck that hurt.

Sherlock gasped and pulled away.

“You’re hurt”

It wasn’t a question. Sherlock stared at him, stricken, a stark contrast to his usual disdainful gaze. The wind picked up then, and ruffled his soft dark hair, as his eyes raked over John’s face, reading the barely concealed pain. He reached out to grab the hem of his shirt and John pinned both his wrists and held them there, tangled in the soft fabric folds. At another time, in another place, this simple action would have led to so much more…

“Don’t” his voice rang clear.

“Show me” Sherlock said, a bare hint of panic in his voice as he wriggled his wrists in John’s tight grip. He squeezed harder until the struggling hands grew still.

“No….that’s not why I came”

It broke something inside him to untangle those fingers and push Sherlock back, so he rose and turned away, standing where the flat space met an upward slope of grey tile.

“You may as well tell me, I’ll work it out anyway…but I’d rather hear it from you John”

Well that was true, it would be impossible to hide, the bastard probably had it sussed out already.

“Last night” he began as Sherlock drew a sharp breath “You thought I’d left you, but I was there the whole time, in another room with Irene, then I waited for ages outside, just standing there.... for a fucking long time”

“Yes, I know that now”

Sherlock lit another cigarette, nerves, John suspected, he needed to occupy his fidgeting hands, he could understand that.

“You read them…my messages?”

“Yes” Sherlock exhaled and tapped ash off into the breeze “but I was already gone by then”

John took some comfort from the tone of regret.

“I’m sorry Sherlock…for what happened at the weekend…what I did…I lost it again and I’m an idiot I know that…but I would never, ever hurt you, you know that…don’t you?”

“Yes I know” the words came out in a long breathy sigh, but he still couldn’t bear to turn around.

John pressed on, there was another reason why he had turned up today, more important than his own wounded pride.

“But there are people out there who really do want to hurt you Sherlock, you must be getting to close to the truth, I would say….this…what they did to me…it’s a message…to back off and stay out of their way”

He risked a glance and wished he hadn’t, Sherlock just looked so far away, staring out across the rooftop at the grey cloudy sky.

“It’s my fault then” his voice sounded defeated and flat.

“No” John said, because he so desperately didn’t want it to be true.

“How many?”

“Just two”

“Weapons?”

“A knife…the other bloke was a fucking weapon…he used his boots and his fists mostly, I was cornered, they didn’t need anything else”

“And your hand…that happened you punched the stall”

“Yeah…not the best move as it turned out, or I might have stood half a chance”

“Don’t be an idiot John, it wouldn’t have made any difference to the outcome at all”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence mate, that makes me feel a whole lot better”

“When I came round” he ignored the small gasp (didn’t know I was knocked out cold then…feeling guilty now?) “I tried to call again…where the hell did you go?”

“Home…I lost my phone”

“You would never just lose it, anyway you already admitted you saw all my texts…so really…where is it?”

Sherlock just gave another infuriating shrug that made his fists clench. If he could muster the strength he would punch him and then probably snog him again. Jesus Christ he was impossible.

“I threw it in the Thames”

Really? Well that was…unexpected…Sherlock without his phone was like severing one of his limbs.

“For fuck’s sake Sherlock…why the hell would you do that? Were you actually out of your mind?”

“Yes”

What? John took a minute to process what Sherlock had just said. Wait a minute, he was out of his mind? What the hell was that supposed to mean, they hadn’t had that many drinks and it would have worn off by that time, so did that mean…he was high? Oh fuck, that was it, wasn’t it, the stupid fucking bastard got high.

“You’re an absolute fucking cock Sherlock…why?”

“Because it was there….and you weren’t…it didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time”

“Well that’s just fucked-up logic mate…where did you get hold of it anyway?”

Shit, why did he need to ask that when he already knew?

Sherlock rolled his eyes “I thought you had at least a few more brain cells than that”

“Don’t push me you twat…and then what…you took a nice little stroll by the Thames in the middle of the fucking night?”

His eyes flickered over that long pale neck that was tilted slightly over to the right, and rested for a moment on dark mark against the white skin, a bruise that he didn’t put there that night.

Okay, now he had made a deduction too.

“Don’t be so dramatic John, it’s hardly Afghanistan”

His head snapped back up and he shot him an angry glare

“No? so why was I being jumped on and getting the shit kicked out of me then?”

“Then stay away”

“What?”

God no, not this again, less than two days apart and he already felt like one of the living dead.

“From me…stay away, I’m obviously a danger to you and to myself…so this” Sherlock gestured between them “ends now”

“Oh no Sherlock Holmes, don’t you fucking dare try and push me away” John growled, his voice a strange marriage of anger and fear. He had to say it now, he might never get this chance again. If he had only told him last night he would never have walked home alone or been attacked and Sherlock wouldn’t have bolted and gone home to get high and then….no, he didn’t want to think about what Sherlock had done after that, but he could have a pretty good guess…

Sherlock had moved away now, poised at the top of the stairs.

It’s now or never John. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth and his lips had gone dry.

“I can’t leave you Sherlock, …because…I love you”

Oh god, he wanted to die.

“And that” said Sherlock coolly as he disappeared from view “is exactly why you should”

~*~

Fuck, he had to get out of there now. Sherlock willed himself to calm down as his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. John had said ‘I love you’ and he knew had had to let him go, to send him away.

His school shoes made too much noise as he clattered down the metal stairs, echoing loudly in his ears. He reached the bottom jumped the last few and just ran. Over, and under, and through, his feet skittered on the gravel path as he thundered back towards the gym doors. The corridor was empty as he pushed himself through and sat, hunkered down, back pressed against the cool brick wall.

John had dissected him with those deep blue eyes and he knew, he bloody well knew exactly where Sherlock had gone, and yet he had gone ahead and said those words anyway. Damn him.

It was the right thing to do after what John had been through.

Sherlock felt hard cold fury burn within his chest. They had hurt John because of him and his arrogant pursuit of the game. He felt sick as he imagined what lay beneath that soft blue shirt, bruised ribs and legs by the way John had held himself, so fucking tense, and a mark concealed in his hairline, but not from Sherlock’s eyes, indicated a blow to the head. They would pay, whoever it had been, he was clever and it was time to prove it. He would find a way. It would be harder to do this alone, but he would never put John in danger again.

But first he had to make the pain go away.

In his gym bag, a brand new pack of syringes were tucked away inside, the result of a quick detour to the free addiction clinic just over the bridge. The Chemistry lab was empty when he crept in, no lessons scheduled for the rest of the day. It was a matter of seconds to gather the tools he would need and a spoon from the dinner hall that he had tucked up his sleeve, his tie an adequate tourniquet pulled tight between his teeth. Sherlock set to work, calm again as he measured out his dose of grey-white dust, a different sort of high from the manic cocaine rush. He pushed the needle beneath his skin and a delicious warmth spread through his body like liquid flame, he smiled, a sunset in his veins.

It was almost better than sex.

He thought of John and the way he felt inside him.

Well, perhaps not.

~*~

“Come on John mate it’s been four fucking days…get your clothes on we’re going out tonight”

“Fuck off Mike”

John groaned and pulled the smelly duvet back up over his head. He wished they would all just leave him the fuck alone. It was childish and ridiculous he knew, but bed is where he wanted to stay.

Lectures had passed in a blur, entire periods spent staring out of windows or drawing doodles in the margins of his refill pad. An entire week’s worth of notes he would have to catch up on at some later date. He had stopped short of _'John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes_ ' though, the piss-taking was already bad enough to be going on with, without adding that little gem to the mix.

Mike yanked the whole duvet off the bed, so he flipped him off before he buried his head under the pillows instead.

“We’re all going to the Student union tonight”, Mike continued, unperturbed “ and you, my friend, are coming too, whether you bloody well like it or not, so get your smelly little arse in that shower, now!”

“I don’t smell”

“Oh yes, you do, we took a vote, you either have a wash, or we pin you down and scrub you raw, and believe it or not mate, none of us actually want to see your bare arse, your choice”

“I hate you”

“Yeah, I know you do….so do as you’re fucking told and move…and look, I even made you a tea…” he heard the clink of a mug on the bedside table behind his head , “so shit, shower and shave mate… we’re leaving in half an hour” Mike slapped him hard across the backside eliciting a yelp of surprise before slamming the door as he left John’s room.

Maybe he should make the effort and go tonight, he’d done nothing but moon around the flat all week in between classes and his best mates’ patience had obviously worn thin. He shoved the pillows off his head and sat up with a groan, his body still stiff and sore. The bruises on his ribs had mostly turned a sickly green, but he didn’t need the painkillers anymore. Popping pills just made him think of Sherlock, abusing his body again. John hated that hazy feeling, like cotton wool in your head, and that idiot did it for fun? Living with a parent hooked on tranquilisers and an alcoholic sister kind of kicked any sort of urge to experiment right up the proverbial arse.

Fuck it, who the hell was he kidding anyway, every damn thing reminded him of that stupid skinny twat, and John knew he would have him back in a heartbeat if he could, drugs be damned. He was training to be a doctor for god’s sake, he could help… he bloody well wanted to help. And he also wanted to fuck him too…there was always that as well.

The last thing in the world he felt in the mood for was a night out at the Union bar… it was where they had met that very first night. Sherlock on stage playing that guitar, fingers flying so expertly over the strings, the same fingers that had learned how to expertly take him apart several times since.

John growled in frustration as he pushed up from the bed and paced across to the bathroom door. Three days without a shower was disgusting, but he just hadn’t felt like it before, preferring to wallow in self- pity instead. But Mike was right, he couldn’t inflict this torture on his flatmates anymore, he had actually become a hazard to human health.

The hot spray was amazing as the heat worked its way into all his muscles and bones, making him feel loose and warm, and he felt almost normal again for the first time in days. This was good, he could do this, suddenly the prospect of a night out with the lads seemed very close to… fun. When the hell was the last time he had just cut loose and had a good time? Probably Saturday before it all went to hell if he was being honest and Sherlock had just looked so damn good that night.

John groaned. His thoughts always came around to the same damn thing. He hadn’t touched himself in almost a week, hadn’t even been close, but he was definitely hard now. Just this once, he would allow himself this just one last time. He wrapped his right hand around his hot, heavy prick and pulled slowly from base to tip and back down again, rocking into the movement with his hips. Oh god it felt so good, and he needed this, so why even bother to fight it anymore? He leaned against the tile wall and buried his head in the crook of his elbow, squeezing tighter as he fucked his own fist, wishing it could be Sherlock’s arse instead, marking him instead of the wall as he came, much too soon, in hot pulsing spurts.

Oh shit, he was definitely going to hell.

Twenty minutes later, feeling not quite as composed as he could be, he locked his door before joining the gang in the corridor outside, praying none of them could read the explicit fantasy that had just played through his dirty mind.

“We were just about ready to send in a search party mate…but Vince here thought you might be having a crafty pre-party wank” Mike shoved him playfully, and they all erupted in peals of laughter as he followed John out of the flat.

It was just banter, he knew that, but a warm flush crept over his skin just the same. The other three were coatless and so ran on ahead ‘to get some beers in’ Bobby said, leaving John and Mike to saunter along behind.

As they stepped out into the cold night air it seemed like half the student body were all headed the same way as them, to the large red brick Union building at the centre of a grassy square. John knew it was cheaper than the bars in town and with a decent party atmosphere too (and safer a traitorous voice whispered in his head, remembering the beating from last weekend), but the real reason for this choice of venue was soon made abundantly clear. After the madness of fresher’s week, Friday night was now officially band night.

Holy fuck. John seriously considered turning back around the way they came.

“Did you already know about this, or were you just saving it as a nice surprise?” he snapped, hating the tone of accusation in his voice.

Mike eyed him shrewdly, “Maybe, but it’s not always all about you mate”

He felt guilty and hastened to apologise, “Of course, sorry Mike…I know I’m probably going to be a bit of an annoying prick tonight”

“Hey, no probs short arse, but maybe you should listen to your head next time, instead of your dick”, he grinned good naturedly, as they joined the end of the queue which wound outwards from the main doors.

“Shit, I forgot it would be so fucking cold” John shivered in his thin clothes as his breath ghosted white in the air. Black t-shirt, jeans and a navy canvas jacket, not enough in October, but he would a prat bundled up in anything else. Not that he had anyone to impress. He opted to shuffle on the spot and stick his hands under his armpits instead.

“Here, get some of this inside you mate” Mike whispered in his ear as he tapped john on the hand.

“Where did you get this from, your fucking Grandad?” John palmed the slim metal hip flask and turned his body towards the wall, shielded by Mike’s back, because they wouldn’t be allowed in if they were caught. He tilted the flask as he brought it to his lips and a burning liquid filled his mouth and throat. Neat cherry vodka. His eyes streamed as he suppressed the urge to choke.

“Fucking hell Mike” he gasped as he passed it back over.

“Just a little Dutch courage” Mike laughed.

“What the hell do you need Dutch courage for?” Mike looked suspiciously sheepish and John almost face-palmed right then, the earlier comment now made perfect sense.

“Go on, let’s have it, who’s the lucky girl then?” he punched Mike sharply in the top of his left arm.

“Ah fuck!, no need to give me dead-arm you prat”, Mike replied, rubbing it with a groan. “It’s Molly Hooper” he met John’s eyes, just daring him to take the piss. As if he would…

“Hey, that’s great Mike, that’s the girl from last band night? She seemed really nice….so” he nudged into him playfully, “you get anywhere yet?”

Fairs, fair John thought , that was nothing compared to what Mike had put him through when he found out he’d slept with Sherlock.

Mike coloured, “Hey, I don’t kiss and tell”

“That would be a no, then?”

John smirked. Nothing took your mind off your own romantic troubles faster than ripping the piss out of your similarly unfortunate friend. (Although romantic didn’t really apply when it came to Sherlock, did it?)

Mike passed the flask of vodka back and John took another large, warming swig. With any luck he would be rat-arsed by the time they made it inside.

When they did make it over the threshold ten minutes later, his whole body tingled from both the alcohol and the cold air from outside. They stood still and scanned the crowd for familiar faces until they noticed Vince approaching from the right, expertly balancing three pints.

“Ay Ay boys!, the first drink is on me, cheers”

John took one of the drinks with a grateful smile and gulped some down quickly before it could spill over the side, chasing away the bitter tang of cherry as he glanced around. A group of girls were heading their way, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, Molly and three friends. John was just relieved it didn’t include Lisa, the girl that had felt him up at that house-party they had gone to when they first arrived. That had been a real eye-opener in every sense of the word

. Molly smiled shyly at them all as she nervously introduced her friends, Karen, Mary and Gail. Mike just stood there sporting a ridiculous grin as John nodded politely, not taking a word of it in and shifting uncomfortably under their quite blatant stares, checking him out like he was the shiny new toy, competing over who got to play with him first . He felt his blood pressure spike. If this was some sort of set-up Mike Stamford was going to suffer a most painful and horrible death.

John excused himself as soon as he thought polite, and walked away. Suddenly it felt a little hard to breathe.

He leaned heavily against the front of the empty stage, deep in thought, about dark hair and eyes like slivers of ice when someone tapped him on the shoulder from the right. Shit. He must have jumped about a mile he was so far gone, and his jolted pint of lager sloshed over the side and down his arm. He shook his wet hand and wiped it off on his jeans. A short blonde girl stood and smiled and him with a quizzical look in her eyes.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you there, John…isn’t it?…I promise I don’t bite”

It was one of Molly Hooper’s friends and she had only been introduced to John minutes before. His cheeks flamed as he realised he couldn’t remember her name, but then again he had been in a bit of a hurry to get away.

“Oh… er…sorry, I was miles away…erm…..”

“Mary” the girl helpfully supplied, correctly reading the signs. John smiled sheepishly.

Christ, he actually used to be good at this shit once upon a time, a different girl almost every weekend until Sara came along…not that he ever did much… ‘stuff’, but that wasn’t really the point….

He could kiss her, if he wanted, and it would probably be good, all soft and sweet and nice, but John didn’t want nice, not anymore. Kissing Sherlock could never be described as nice, it was more like a fucking invasion, just hang on for dear life and enjoy the ride. (So much for pushing Sherlock to the back of his mind).

Mary had short blonde hair which she tucked behind her ears, and pretty light blue eyes, and as the minutes passed he was also happy to admit she was actually good company and really easy going too, not fake or trying to put herself on show. And no obvious signs of flirting, he was relieved to note. It was a damn sight better than listening to the usual blokey banter that he just couldn’t stand anymore. John felt more relaxed than he had done all week. Well that couldn’t last now, could it?

The hall was almost full now as the final preparations were made for tonight’s show, the stage already set for the headline act of the night. John felt a shiver of anticipation, as he remembered just how much he loved to watch a band play live.

“So, any idea who’s on tonight?” he asked Mary as they walked back a little, away from the front of the stage, not wanting to stand too close.

“Oh God John, I thought you would already know…Molly told me…Mike said……” she trailed off helplessly as John stood frozen in the middle of the room.

The band were coming out on stage to sound check, one final chance to mess around before the start. A tall pale figure wandered over to a mic stand, bass slung across his back and a pick hanging out of his mouth.

Fucking hell.

No.

~*~

“I fucking hate you Greg Lestrade”

“And I love you too” Greg grinned broadly as the van pulled through the open back gates of an annoyingly familiar back yard, the last place on earth that Sherlock wanted to see. He looked out of the window and his heart clenched.

Oh god, this was hideous and he was so fucking annoyed with himself, how had he not noticed this? And if he had, would he have come anyway? Fuck it, the answer was yes. That didn’t mean he wasn’t pissed off by this rude interruption to his latest depressive phase. And until proven otherwise this devious trick had Mycroft written all over it, and Sherlock would make him pay.

Sherlock was confused, a state which he never normally had to endure. Confusion was for imbeciles like Anderson and Dimmock for instance, currently wasting oxygen up front, discussing football and soaps and which of the female officers had the biggest tits or nicest arse. Could Mycroft be suffering from an attack of loathsome sentiment perhaps? Why else would he be dreaming up unsubtle ways to ensure he and John Watson crossed paths? Unless he was simply twisting the knife.

“He might not even be here you know?” Greg startled him out of his reflective daze, knowing exactly what was on his mind (blond hair, blue eyes, cute smile, amazing arse…oh god). Sherlock ignored him as he wrenched the door open on the back of the van and jumped down into the yard. That John might not have come was unthinkable too, otherwise what would be the point?

Four days had felt like forty and he _needed_ to see John again, mostly because he was a fucking stupid idiot for even considering walking away, while the drugs just kept him numb enough to function in the most very basic sense. Which reminded him, he needed to recalculate the dose, it wouldn’t do to pass out at school, that might make it a little tricky to take advantage of a convenient empty classroom again.

Mycroft knew, (he had done nothing to hide the fresh track marks) but he hadn’t actually said, which was quite disturbing in itself and made Sherlock quite tempted to stop there and then out of spite, just to prove the he wasn’t addicted this time. And he didn’t think he really was…yet, still teetering on the edge, as he dabbled with heroin again.

Oh dear, good little Dr Watson would be appalled.

Sherlock was horrified to find that he cared.

The hall was full again as they walked out on stage. Sherlock had to turn away, bending over to faff around and avoid peering out into the crowd in search of that one particular face. Fuck, he wished he could sneak back out for another cigarette, as the craving for nicotine made his fingers twitch, and the blood pound in his ears. It was ridiculous to feel this way. Another, deeper craving knawed at the edge of his brain as he sorted through the tangled leads on the floor, but he angrily pushed it away. It would be a few more hours until his next hit, he only hoped under the circumstances, he could find the strength to wait.

Greg gave the signal and the lights went down to the sound of an excited murmur from the crowd. Sherlock took a deep breath, pulled the pick from his lips and turned….

Holy shit.

Blue eyes locked on icy grey….

~*~

“John? Are you okay?”

John barely registered Mary’s voice as he continued to stand and stare. He might even have drooled a bit too. Too-tight jeans outlined every inch of thigh and tousled curls jumped around wildly with every flick of his wrist. The bastard. Why the hell did he have to look so good… and fuckable too? And why had he agreed to come here tonight? His denims felt uncomfortably tight. Fucking fantastic….an inappropriate hard-on to add to his shame. This wasn’t helping, not one little bit.

“Is that him?”

He nodded, vaguely aware of the small hand that linked with his and pulled him closer to the stage. He let himself be led. They were in each other’s orbit now and there was no way he would be able to walk away.

“Wow, I know Molly told me he was gorgeous…but really…. he’s in a totally different league”

“Yeah, I know” he said sadly, suddenly wishing she would leave. He didn’t need reminding about what was no longer his, not here. And he wished Sherlock would stop bloody looking at him too. What point was he trying to prove? That he was fine without him? This was just fucking cruel.

Mary leaned in, mouth close to his ear so he could hear her over the swell of sound. “He can’t take his eyes off you, John” She edged forward, crushed by the press of people all around and placed a hand on his chest for balance, while her other arm wound around his waist, a finger hooked through his belt loop.

It was almost like an embrace.

The song ended, Sherlock scowled for a second and turned away.

It felt wrong. John shifted uncomfortably, overcome by a weird sense of guilt, and pushed her hand off his chest, digging in his pocket for his phone as an excuse to step away.

An unknown number, one message.

He glanced at the stage where Sherlock still stood, determinedly _not_ looking his way.

_Don’t you fucking dare – SH_

~*~

Sherlock lit a much needed cigarette and took a deep, calming drag. He leant against the outside wall, just right of the fire exit door and waited.

He doubted it would take very long.

He was nervous and it irritated him to feel that way, with a nauseous sensation in his stomach and skin that felt all….wrong.

He took another drag and blew smoke rings in the air.

How could John do that? Get off with some random girl, right there in front of his face? They had even moved closer to the stage, as if a glimpse from across the room hadn’t been more than enough. And when she had touched him, it had just been too much and a white-hot flame of jealousy had ignited in his chest.

Sherlock allowed himself a rather smug grin. John had gone such a lovely shade of pink, visible even under the glare of the stage lights, when Sherlock had ruined his fun. Fuck no John Watson, we can’t have that…a girl? And so his resolve had cracked and he turned his back to tap out a desperate message on his brand new phone (If this one ends up in the Thames brother dear, you will follow it, of that you can be sure)

Ah, and here he is, right on cue. John Watson, deliciously dishevelled and out of breath, burst through the doorway and into the yard.

“What the fuck Sherlock?”

“Good evening John, what an eloquent greeting, you look somewhat upset…pity, when I saw you out there you looked to be having a wonderful time…oh dear, I wonder what went wrong?”

He was being deliberately provocative and rude, in the way normally reserved for…well everyone other than John to tell the truth. This affected air of indifference was so hard to maintain while his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. A cold sweat prickled at his skin and slowly ran down his back.

But John was here again, in front of him and he looked so incredibly good. It took all Sherlock’s strength not to march over and take him right there, pushed up against the door…

“Fun? Not really, I was having a bloody awful time if you must know, because of you, you smug bastard… so what do you want now? I thought we were done, do correct me if I’m wrong… ‘Don’t you fucking dare?’ What the hell are you on about now?”

John had stepped closer now, whether consciously, Sherlock didn’t actually know, but close enough to count his eyelashes and see faint flecks of saliva on his lips from shouting too loud. If he leaned a little closer he could lick that beautiful mouth…

“Who is she John? Quite pretty, I’ll give you that, ever the ladies’ man it seems…but does she realise you’d much prefer a mouthful of cock?”

John paused, rocked back a step, out of breath and wide-eyed

“Oh god Sherlock, you are such a massive twat…I never even touched her…in fact, she had just finished telling me how fucking gorgeous she thought you were….fuck…you’re killing me here Sherlock…. just tell me what the hell you want…”

At this point Sherlock should have apologised, at this point John should have turned and walked away. They did neither, just stood there, as their breath ghosted white in the night air, staring one another down.

Sherlock could almost see the electric charge that sparked across the gap between their tensed bodies.

Of course, he could see it now, blinded by sentiment and naked desire, John would never have betrayed them like that, he had projected his own guilty conscience onto the one person in the world that he loved.

It was time to take a risk, but he just might push it too far.

It was a shame thought Sherlock that the concept had no meaning to him, too far never seemed quite far enough…

“I want you to hit me”

Sherlock imagined all that pent-up aggression and passion…all focused on him.

He suppressed a shiver.

“What?”

“Hit me…you heard John…punch me in the face… you know you want to…you’re barely able to hold yourself back right now, it’s written all over your face, I can see”

It was true. Sherlock eyed him with an air of expectation as John’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

(He really does want to…he’s going to…Oh god I need him to…)

But John just shook his head and sighed

“I can’t do that Sherlock…I just can’t”

Sherlock looked on in horror as his last chance slipped away.

(No John Watson, I will _make_ you punish me or this will never be okay.)

“Oh for god’s sake”

Sherlock dropped his half-finished cigarette and crushed it firmly with his toe, then he stepped forward, closed the small gap between them planted his hands on John’s chest and shoved as hard as he could.

John’s eyes went wide with shock and with no time to react he stumbled back, and grabbed the door frame to break his fall, fingers gripped tightly around the wooden frame.

“I deserve it John, you know I do”

Sherlock sucked in a shaky breath, his pulse raced with fear and excitement at what he had just dared to do “because while you were beaten half to death that night… you already know I got high…but I also got off with my ex”

“You bastard!”

John leapt up with a snarl, determination and fury etched across his face. He leapt at Sherlock with all the force he could muster and shouldered him square in the chest. Sherlock crashed back, breath knocked from his lungs when he felt his back and head connect, the skin of his elbows torn on the rough brick.

Sherlock did nothing to cushion the blow.

John pulled him back up, and fisted his t-shirt at the neck, breath coming out hard through his nose, teeth gritted and right arm drawn back. His good arm, the hand that hadn’t been strapped.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tight, he didn’t want to see it, the hurt in John’s eyes. But, the pain when John punched him in the face, that, Sherlock was more than happy to feel.

A sharp burst of pure agony radiated out from his jaw and his head snapped back. John let go of his t-shirt and Sherlock fell, hard, as the cold concrete ground jolted every bone. He was on his back, floored by a single punch.

Nothing broken, a split lip, an initial assessment as he gingerly probed his face. He’d done this before, that much was clear.

“Really John, I must say I’m impressed”

“Shut up Sherlock…just shut the fuck up”

John dropped to his knees like he no longer had the strength to stand and straddled him, pinned him in place. Sherlock wriggled a little and John’s eyes darkened, daring him to move but knowing Sherlock didn’t intend to do any such thing.

A thin trickle of blood ran down from his swollen mouth and Sherlock caught it and brushed it away.

He loved it when John spilled blood for him, even when it happened to be his.

Fuck, he was twisted, and probably insane.

John bent down with a sigh, eyes red-rimmed from residual anger and brimming with unshed tears and kissed him, gently, a soft sweet brush lips. He kissed him again, a little harder this time and brushed his tongue lightly over the cut on Sherlock’s lip, licking the coppery fluid that had gathered there.

Sherlock gasped…oh god. He held out his fingers and John took those too, tongue working over his blood soaked skin until every trace had disappeared.

“Fuck John” he groaned, hopelessly turned-on, his erection trapped under the weight of John’s arse. He reached up hesitantly to cup his face.

“No, I don’t think you deserve that yet Sherlock…do you?”

John caught hold of his wrist and grasped the other one too. He pushed his arms back and pinned them there, over his head and leant over his body, until they were pressed chest to chest.

“I fucking hate you Sherlock” he hissed as he ground his hips down with a moan.

“No you don’t John…you love me….and…I love you too”

“Don’t say that…you’re not supposed to say that…please”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true”

“You scare me so much…like every time I close my eyes I think you’re going to just disappear”

“I won’t…look…I’m right here”

“For how long this time Sherlock…what about the next time we argue… will you just go on another bender and cheat on me while you’re still high?”

John lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, not waiting for his answer, it seemed. Sherlock arched his head back in wordless assent, as John sucked bruise after painful bruise onto his skin. It was agonising and gorgeous to be marked and owned like this. John broke away and lifted his head and stared at him with eyes as black as the night sky

“Fuck you Sherlock Holmes” he whispered

“Yes please…do that”

He rocked his hips against him, feeling John’s own hardness in return. John lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s chest with a growl and… oh god…flicked a nipple with the tip of his tongue through the light cotton barrier and sucked until the fabric was thoroughly wet.

“Keep still”

As if he was capable of movement right now. Freezing air slapped his skin as John relinquished his hold to push his t-shirt up over his ribs. Sherlock left his hands where they were anyway.

“Ah…God…John”

John wrapped finger and thumb around one taught nipple and pulled, twisted and pulled again. Before he had time to even process the pain John was biting again, tiny red indentations peppered over his skin. Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest as he caught the nub of flesh and pulled hard, stretched between clenched teeth. It was too much, and not enough at all and Sherlock wanted this more than anything even though it would ruin them both.

“I want you to fuck me now” he breathed hoarsely. John moaned and fisted a hand into his dark hair.

“Do it…go on…I dare you”

John pulled hard, until his eyes watered and he arched his head back with a gasp

“Fuck me right here outside, where anyone might walk out and see”

It was cruel to push John’s buttons like that, but he had to say yes, he just had to. Sherlock needed this like air.

“You want this, don’t you, you sick fuck…you planned this from the start”

“Do you care?”

“I should…but no…no I don’t…get up”

He didn’t wait for Sherlock to comply, just swung his leg back off Sherlock’s thighs, and dragged him up by the arm as he rose.

“There”

John pulled him around a corner, just out of sight of the door. Best not to remind him about the camera, Sherlock thought, they must have given Mycroft quite a show.

The red light blinked benignly in the darkness.

It was the same place again, like that very first night, not even two weeks ago, when John had still thought himself straight and Sherlock just wanted him too much to care. But Sherlock had been the one in control that time, and now the tables had turned.

Well, not really, Sherlock reminded himself, but it is the thought that counts.

“Like this”

He positioned Sherlock face first against the wall and his cock gave a desperate throb, trapped beneath the confines of tight jeans. He braced his hands, shoulder height and turned his head to the side, pressing his cheek against the wall. It was smooth here, covered by layer upon layer of whitewash, the rough surface smoothed down over time. John pressed in close behind him and nudged his legs further out to the sides.

“Don’t touch”

He felt his button pop open, the zip hissed faintly as it was pulled down and John’s soft warm hands rolled cold denim down his shaking legs.

“No pants?”

“With jeans this tight?”

John huffed, a small laugh and ran his hands up and down the length of his thighs, warming the icy skin. He shuffled back a step or two and stuck his arse out further, in what he imagined was a helpful way, there was a height difference to consider, and he didn’t want to accidently abrade his cock against the wall.

“We don’t have anything….lube or…”

Oh god, now was not the time to be chivalrous.

“Fuck John… I don’t care…just do it anyway”

Warm fingers ghosted across his lips, and paused, running over the crusted split.

“Suck”

John leaned in close, hot sweet breath with the slightest tinge of alcohol, spoke right into his ear.

“Better make it good, because that’s all you’re going to get”

Well, Sherlock certainly didn’t need to be told twice.

He drew the proferred digits into his eager mouth and sucked, swirled and licked, working his tongue into every dip and fold of skin. It was John’s left hand, the other free to unbutton belt and jeans, and push down pants and press…oh fuck…John’s hot, damp erection fit perfectly into the crease of his arse, as the head left a sticky trail at the base of his spine.

“No-one else” John growled “ not ever again…no-one else ever has you like this…”

(anything John…yes)

Sherlock hummed his assent as drool dripped down his chin and then ran down his neck. He would damn well make sure that those fingers were good and wet. John pulled them out with a audible pop and spread his arse apart with one hand. A cool, wet finger drew a teased a trail from cleft to the base of his cock and he shivered violently. John drew back.

“Okay?”

“Don’t stop”

John stroked around the sensitive skin, no longer afraid to push and probe as he circled gently around his hole. The finger slipped inside and Sherlock groaned as the muscle reflexively tightened around the intrusion, uncomfortable at first. He willed himself to relax. It had almost been a week since he last had sex with John and that was too fucking long.

“John please”

Two fingers now, and it burned like hell fire, without the slick slide of lube on his overheated insides.

For god’s sake, they didn’t have time for this, bed was the place for a slow and leisurely fuck, John was being too gentle, too kind.

“Now John”

“You still feel so tight….It’ll hurt too much”

“Right now I don’t care… I just need your cock in me now”

He wanted to feel like a virgin again, teeth clenched against the pain, and it would hurt this time, John’s cock was too big to pretend it would be otherwise. But that didn’t matter, with John it would always be good. But he had to go and be a fucking idiot, and had almost ruined everything in one ridiculous night.

John lined up the head of his cock and slowly pressed inside, inch by burning inch. Sherlock sucked in a shuddering breath and moaned helplessly. It felt both terrible and wonderful at the same time.

“Shh…I’ve got you Sherlock…it’s fine”

Oh god, he couldn’t do it, John would never fit inside. But he did, pain fading into tingling pleasure, fuck, how he loved this. He thrust forward gently and pulled back, and Sherlock felt every glorious pulse and drag as John’s cock throbbed inside him. He must have been leaking precome too as John rocked faster the sound of their fucking sounded wet and slick, thighs slapping hard against his cold bare arse as Sherlock bucked back too.

“Oh…oh….ah….there, stay like that for fuck’s sake….there”

John slammed the right spot inside him again and again. Sherlock was high, and he never, ever, wanted this to end.

“Sherlock…god yes…Sherlock…fuck” an almost incoherent stream

“I need John….I need”

A hand left his hip and wrapped around his flushed, wet cock, so sensitive it almost hurt. He hissed as he fucked into John’s closed fist, the strapping on his fingers scraped pleasantly over his skin. They were making too much noise of course, gasps and moans and grunts, and anyone that wandered by would know someone was being very thoroughly fucked. But Sherlock couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop the desperate moans that just kept spilling from his mouth.

“Hush Sherlock…don’t”

John huffed into the back of his neck. But the hot puffs of breath only tickled and made him moan even more.

“Oh god, you’re impossible…next time you’re wearing a gag”

Holy shit, did he even realise how much that turned him on?

And then he was gone.

Sherlock gasped as John pulled out a bit too quickly and took his hand away from his cock. His whole body seemed to throb with the loss, arse empty and so fucking cold. But John turned him around then, placed hands on his shoulders and pulled him in, warm, and solid and real, a violent kiss to punish him, an oral attack, he wanted Sherlock to give in. He felt the cut re-open again, and tasted the copper tang on John’s tongue.

John pressed down on his shoulders then, a gentle push to show his intent.

Oh god, he wants me on my knees.

“Well” John whispered, smiling into the curve of Sherlock’s neck “ It might stop you making quite so much noise, don’t you think?.....with your mouth stuffed full of my dick”

“Let’s put that to the test then, shall we?”

“Don’t you ever just do as you’re told Sherlock?”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way”

“Oh, I can think of a thousand ways I want to have you….starting right now…do it!”

And who was he to disobey a direct order? Sherlock dropped to his knees and buried his face in soft fuzzy curls, as his fingers gripped onto glorious handfuls of arse. He inhaled, drinking in the raw scent of strawberries, sweat and sex, it felt like home.

It was John’s turn to lean, propped upright with one fist in his mouth to stifle his cries and the other fisted tightly in Sherlock’s dark curls, a mixture of comfort and pain. John’s cock felt hot and heavy under his tongue as he licked the first long stripe from base to tip, tasting the velvety skin, not caring where John’s cock had just been. He sipped at the head and his lips suckled gently, Sherlock’s own special lollipop, salty and bitter as sin.

“Fuck Sherlock…just look at you…I wish you could see how gorgeous you are”

He hummed with pleasure, vibrating along the length of John’s cock, and John gripped his hair tighter and fucked forward into his mouth. He sucked John down further, as far as he could go, and it was glorious, choking a little on his length when John jerked forward again, a bit too far. Hot liquid pooled at the corners of his eyes and his lips were a wet mess of drool, but there was nothing better than this, Sherlock knew, not a single damn thing, than on his knees for John, sucking on his dick.

“Sherlock? Where the fuck are you, you devious little shit?”

It was Greg.

Oh fuck.

John went rigid above him, and sucked in a breath. But that only made it more exciting, Sherlock thought, as he sucked down harder and faster, just for the sheer thrill, while John tugged at his hair in wild desperation and fear.

The adrenaline brought John close to the edge now, Sherlock could feel his muscles, all tensed like a tightly coiled spring. He fisted his own cock in tandem, a mess of sloppy wet sounds in the air. John stifled a moan as he came, and hot bitter liquid filled his mouth, pulsing out in long shuddering spurts. He swallowed what he could as the rest dribbled slowly down his chin. He buried his head in John’s thigh as he reached his own release, spilling over his fist and marking the bottom of John’s best jeans.

They both held their breath, frozen in the aftermath as an impatient foot tapped a beat onto the ground.

“If you’re both quite finished back there, I’d really like to get home to bed”

They both exhaled at the same time, and Sherlock sniggered into John’s leg

“And take this as a warning Sherlock, if I catch you again, I’ll take you both in. Public indecency? Tut…tut…whatever would Mummy say” Greg gave a throaty chuckle as his footsteps retreated back the way they came.

“Oh my god” stuttered John “did that just happen? Please tell me it didn’t?”

“Well sorry, but I believe it just did…..anyway, shall we continue this back at mine?”

He yanked up his jeans and shuddered in the cold night air. His skin itched and crawled, a feeling deeper, and infinitely more insidious than mere exposure could produce. John eyed him thoughtfully, dark blue eyes read his every twitch and shiver. He sighed, and reached out, running his thumb over the crook of Sherlock’s left arm and traced over the needle marks there.

Sherlock resisted the urge to snatch it away.

It would be fine, no more hiding, his choice was made.

“This has to stop you know”

He looked so sad and Sherlock felt wretched. He forced himself to smile.

“Well, I hope you’re prepared for what an utter bastard I’ll be”

John grinned despite himself. He’d missed this so much, the easy banter and sarcastic jibes.

“Aren’t you always? I doubt if I’ll even notice the change”

“I’ll be ridiculously horny too, without the suppressed libido”

“Oh, I think I can cope with that too…and if you misbehave I can always cuff you to the bed”

“Is that supposed to be an incentive?”

“Okay…I’ll try that again….If you ‘ _behave_ ’, I’ll cuff you…how’s that?”

“John Watson, you know me so well” he smiled, genuine this time.

“Now me” John said “Because you’re going to see this anyway, and it might as well be now, so we can clear the air”

Sherlock nodded as nervous anticipation made his pulse race too fast. John pulled up his t-shirt and revealed his bruised and battered skin, a hideous kaleidoscope of purple, yellow and green.

Sherlock felt ill, he hoped never to see those three colours together in quite that way again.

He should have been there. He had let John down.

“If you want to keep going on this Sherlock, we need to work together…so, you have to tell me exactly what you know”

But before he could think of an answer, Greg burst back in with Anderson and Dimmock in tow, the jokey demeanour had gone. Sherlock frowned, something was wrong.

“Sorry to spoil the big reunion lads, but there’s been a bit of trouble in town, an arson attack, and a possible murder… and we’ve all been called in…so get in the van… now”

“Coming John?”

Sherlock clambered into the back, and held out his hand.

As if either of them really had a choice.

John tumbled in after him, and the van sped away into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> There now - is everyone okay? They are back together again and it's all going to be fine!
> 
> Please forgive Sherlock for behaving like a massive twat - he was under the influence at the time.
> 
> Remember - hugs not drugs kids!


End file.
